Our Bedroom

The lock on the door that does not keep the children out; every
size of sock, balled up, scattered everywhere, unpaired;
dead
deep-red roses
drooping sadly, heads bowed down, stems entombed in a clouded
vase− eleven of them, so, one short of a dozen
(strange); brown framed
               depiction
of a laughing, happy Jesus beneath a brown for background
canvas of our names in cursive inside heart of petals; bought
for twenty dollars at a yard sale,
          end of day,
two velvety violet-ish
couches, covered in dog hair, one doubling as a desk, the other
as a hamper; on the coffee table, another vase (this one tinted pink)
with withered flowers– these of unknown variety – purple, too many
to count;...

Plants do not fare well here.  Like the best-laid plans.

                         ... edges
everywhere, crossed, overlaid: books, furniture, shoes overlapping
the edge
where carpet meets tile;
edge of dresser, mantle,
nightstands, all surfaced with papers, trinkets, valuables
and not-so-valuables, threatening
to topple
off;...

There are no clear lines here.  Sharp-played piano keys sound
out.  I cannot tune
                        it out.
Not
plunking of rote song
but rather impromptu melody made by small, playful fingers,
moving like geed horses
and also bullet-voices marking breaks, shooting through
these flimsy walls.

...bluest blue sky
seen from my window; subtler blues inside, copycat shades
on candles, glass, hair on a painting where I was favoring
experimentation, in photographs, scarves,
sheets; lip balm in a small, round tin that I can’t open
but won’t throw out; few spots open for sitting or even walking;...

A dismal mess.  Signaling
   disorder
in our marriage? 
So says a study.

...blanket thrust off the bed in heat, still crumpled on the floor;...

What calm I remember, a ruse believed sub rosa, wrought carefully
with such intricate threads of denial.

...words, words, words, meandering across pages and pages−
poems, prayer journal,
notebooks full of distilled hope; (such
              shallow thirst)
attempts to release heavy weight of this; damaged trust
hidden in a drawer;
half-truths pandering to sentiment hanging on all the walls;...

Media in vitae in morte sumus.

...paperwork combed through for clues; in bowls, matching rings,
unworn; captured and enlarged mocking smile; the muck
of bad luck evidenced in disarray; indulged in urges; aroma
of your cologne, distinct; written rants; and more than what
is written here or even seen.

But, oh, beautiful, imperfect man− my room was a mess
before you moved in.

The Sunday Whirl
                       

Framing

This is a man

This is a woman

this is a man-

in theory,
     he is more than a boy

this is a woman – in theory
sometimes,
she feels, still
like a girl

this man is metal –
     solid, shining

this woman is medley of lustrous facets
polymorphic

this is a man with two children

this is a woman with four children

this is a man with two children- both
boys  this is a woman with four children-
one boy, three girls – respectively

the children all - bright boundless blend

this is a man in love with a woman-
     a woman in love with a man
this is their second go round
this is optimism   this is a beginning-
again

this is family – this alloy,
crystallized into solidity

this is life – these days 

this is an awful
lot of children  a lot of mouths to feed

this is a man trying – heroically 
respectably, day after day
to bring home the proverbial bacon 
a man who found some of what he wanted
and knows there is always more to want

this is a man
more castellan than king

this is a woman trying  this is a woman
this is a writer this is a mother  this is a stepmother 
scratch  mother  this is a wife  a bride  a teacher 
this is a woman trying   trying to be an optimist

this is their house 
a house with six children inside
almost always
almost always
there  almost always moving  talking 
eating  playing  learning 

in all directions      nonstop 
out of house and home  loudly
at the table
on the floor  gathered round

this woman sometimes
feels like the old woman
who lived in a shoe

this is the man and woman’s life joined
until they die  they pray  united 

this is their dandelion house – full
and fat with promise  this is their house
held up carefully  gingerly  with the understanding
that when grown  children swirl away pulled
by their own winds

but this house for now is full and clothed
in children  bedecked in toys  this noise
is its constant din:  the cries; the laughter;
the pleas and bedtime prayers, the stories; songs;
the lessons; the feet running across the tile;
the dirty hands smacking prints across the walls

these children are still forming

this man has been made steel
                                   day after day
heroically, trying

this is a woman trying
hard to stay soft

This is a life
This is their life
This is the life

This is their story, unfolding

This is a woman unfolding stories
in a house full of children-
three boys, three girls,
their individual stories

This is the swinging pendulum of time
and this is now

Disjointed

Disjointed but
    Still
    somewhat content

Yet, there will exist in transit
A preferred belief, as seen
    In combat

                     Together, added,
Wed, stayed, confined
In telling circle-prayer

Then out of confessing mouths
Of babes- a disconnection
Vocalized in whatever feeble attempt

To connect
These critical dots-
How it is now with

How it was then and no prefigurement
Can belie inside a forming mind
                     Still clasped tight

In fervency this held,
Preferred belief. 
The smallness

Of the exclamation
And expression
                 still
                 sharp and wounding.
They could be mine,

For, already, elements
Show forth, in digging,

Of a familiar type
Of thaumaturgic thinking.

Already perfume
Of a false relief wafts
To tease
the air

With an invisible,
Presiding fragrance
And even

Unexpected
                    Delight
Cannot

Prove true outside
Of what any heart

Would naturally
Want. 
Cannot presume

To mend the unrent determination
  Of how it ought to be;
  What was meant

To be. Later,
Even doubt found in chilling
Waves of truth,

Expositions
Of transgressions

Will be secondary to
                                 The firm dependence

On the poet-like impression
That to relive or re-survive

One’s childhood would or could
Be worthwhile- this, they
Will rock themselves

To sleep with.  Now,
The whole is still
Hidden

By an, as of yet,
Unrealized

Reality
and though
the storm
Is behind the bend it seems

The answer
To the thirst

Of soul-drought.  Daring, this desire
                                In fruitless romance-trifle,
dancing
Ever dangerously

With denial
But  forspoken bone-bonds
Are never broken.

Yes, every boy
Is born with savior-complex

Builds a fort of this, presuming
Every girl in wait, singing

Calls from some faraway window
So transferring the need

The mother is transfigured
And this woman resumes
Her place on knees,

Releases, dies to self, 
And thus receives.